


Not Exactly Woodward and Bernstein

by perhael



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perhael/pseuds/perhael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of an airdot, Carolyn runs a newspaper. Martin is her lead investigator. Douglas is a former star reporter who lost his job after an email-hacking incident. Arthur makes everyone coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Exactly Woodward and Bernstein

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this lovely prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=507608) at [cabinpres_fic](http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com). Thanks for the prompt, anon!

The newsroom (well, one might call it a newsroom... one might also call it a cramped office in a cheap part of town, but the sign by the door did read “MJN Press”, which made it look at least somewhat legitimate) was already in full swing when Douglas sauntered in that morning, fashionably late as per custom.

“Morning, newsies,” he said cheerfully, parking himself at his desk and firing up his trusty old Dell. Carolyn blithely ignored Martin’s frequent pleas for iMacs, citing lack of funds and lack of her employees’ journalistic merit. _“Contrary to what you might think, Martin, better equipment will not make you a better journalist.”_

“Morning, Douglas!” Arthur grinned. “How d’you like my new hat?”

Douglas gave the hat in question his careful consideration. “Very nicely folded, Arthur. Is that a copy of yesterday’s edition?”

“Wow, good eye, Douglas!” Arthur positively beamed. “Carl in the mailroom told me how to fold it like this, see, you take the one end and you...”

“Arthur.”

“Yes, Douglas?”

“Coffee, Arthur.”

“Oh! Yes! Coming right up, Douglas.”

 

Martin was at his computer, typing furiously. With two fingers. Douglas smirked.

“Deadline, is it?”

Martin frowned at him. “It’s the Birling story. You know, “wealthy philanthropist buys rugby team”, the human interest angle. We interviewed him last week, remember? You were _supposed_ to have typed up the transcript by now. Only you didn’t, so here I am, writing the entire article from memory.”

“Ah, but what a memory,” Douglas sighed happily, leaning back in his chair with his hands demonstratively folded behind his head. “Mr. Birling is always so appreciative of media coverage, especially when he is assured said coverage will portray him from the best possible angle.”

The shocked look on Martin’s face was one that Douglas would treasure for a long time to come.

“You let him _bribe_ you?”

“I prefer to think of it as a tip. Bribery is such an ugly word, and anyway, it’s a harmless story about a man buying a sports team. What can it hurt to flatter the old boy a little? We’re not exactly Woodward and Bernstein, here.”

Martin was getting red in the face. Oh, this was going to be _fun_.

“It’s about journalistic integrity, Douglas! If we don’t have that, we’re nothing!”

“Ah, is this Mr. Birling again?” Carolyn asked, walking in from her private office, also known as the only other office aside from the newsroom. “I take it you have reassured him of our continued goodwill, Douglas? It wouldn’t do to upset a nice old gentleman like Mr. Birling, now, would it?”

“You mean to say you approve of this sort of behaviour?” Martin asked, crossing his arms across his chest and trying to look stern. “It’s immoral, Carolyn, and what’s more, it’s illegal!”

“Oh, shush,” Carolyn waved him away. “You try running a newspaper on the verge of financial ruin day in day out. I guarantee you’ll soon learn to be appreciative of grateful, doddering old fools like Mr. Birling.”

Martin looked like he was about to issue some further protests, but fortunately for all involved, Arthur chose that moment to return with their coffee.

“Here you are, chaps! Black, two sugars for you, Douglas... sugar and milk for Martin, and milk, no sugar for you, mum.”

“Thank you, dear,” Carolyn said. “Didn’t you want anything for yourself?”

“Oh, no, I brought mine from home!” Arthur said, digging in the rucksack he habitually brought to work and taking out a hip flask. “Here it is!”

“Arthur, is that...” Martin began.

“Chocolate milk! Isn’t the flask neat? Douglas gave it to me, said he wouldn’t be needing it anymore.”

Carolyn and Martin turned to look at Douglas, who was practicing a look of supreme unconcern. If he noticed Carolyn’s little nod of approval and the way Martin’s eyes shone with quietly pleased surprise, he didn’t let on.

“Well, gentlemen,” Carolyn said at last. “I’ll be in my office. I’ll need the Birling piece by 2 p.m., Martin, and not a minute later.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left.

“Are you writing about Mr. Birling, Skip? He’s brilliant! Last year he gave Douglas and me five hundred pounds each, just because Douglas promised to write nice things about him.”

“Yes,” Martin said, the frown returning to his face. “Arthur, you do know that’s... hang on a second. Did you say _five hundred pounds_?”

“Oh, yes. He’s awfully generous, Mr. Birling, Skip.”

Arthur liked calling Martin “Skip”. It was a habit that none of them even thought twice about now, and had its origins in the fact that Martin, during his first week at MJN, had referred to himself as “the captain of this ship”, when he had once again found it necessary to remind Douglas of the fact that he, Martin, was the _lead_ investigator, and Douglas was to defer to his judgement when deciding which stories were worth pursuing.

Douglas had spent an entire week sarcastically addressing him as “Captain” and “Sir”, until Martin had swallowed his pride and begged him to stop.

Arthur, in typical Arthur fashion, had latched on to the idea of their little news outfit as a ship (“That’s _brilliant!_ Can we be a pirate ship?”) and had promptly taken to referring to Martin as “Skipper”, or simply “Skip”. Even after Douglas had relented his teasing (and honestly, he hadn’t been sure how long he could have continued calling Martin “Sir” anyhow, no matter how sarcastic the intent), the nickname had stuck.

“Ye-e-es, that _is_ awfully generous. And you didn’t think to mention this to me beforehand, Douglas?”

“Why, Martin,” Douglas said innocently. “I didn’t think you'd approve of that sort of thing.”

 

Somewhat to Carolyn’s surprise, the Birling piece was indeed finished by 2 p.m. Douglas had decided to be merciful and had taken out his tape recorder and typed up a transcript of the interview. This didn’t take long, because unlike Martin, Douglas used more than two fingers when typing.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Martin had said pointedly when handed the transcript, and Douglas had smirked and rolled his eyes.

This, Douglas reflected, was why he liked working at MJN. Sure, it wasn’t the _Times_ (or even the _Bristol Evening Post_ ), but it was, in a strange way, family. “How the mighty have fallen,” he’d used to think to himself when he started working here after the _Times_ had kicked him out (really, you hack into _one_ email account... at a different paper, he might have gotten away with it). And though the fact that he was no longer lead investigator still rankled a little, he couldn’t think of a better way to spend his workdays than right here at MJN Press, writing for the _Fitton Local News_ , needling Martin and listening to Arthur talking about pirate ships.

And if the pay was less than he was accustomed to... well, there was always Mr. Birling.


End file.
